Eyeliner and Cigarettes
by Cas-Wings
Summary: Sherlock had a secret. It wasn't drugs (not that time, at least), nor was it a secret of unrequited love. It was a secret of a sexual nature: Sherlock Holmes frequented a gay strip club. Nothing had ever gone wrong, no one had ever found out, it was all fine. That was, until an unexpected visitor showed up in his private dance room. That was when everything fell apart.


_**((Totally unrealistic, I know, but what can you expect from PWP, right? I just really enjoy playing with these characters and the dynamic they share. :) To see extras on this fic, such as covers and songs used, head over to my account on Archive of Our Own. All links are posted in the notes of this story there. The link to my AO3 account can be found on my profile on here. Enjoy!))**_

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><p>Sherlock had a secret. It wasn't drugs (not that time, at least), nor was it a secret of unrequited love. It was a secret of a sexual nature. He wasn't ashamed of his homosexual identity, he just preferred if ordinary people didn't know he enjoyed sexual pleasures. It left him open and vulnerable for manipulation, and in his line of work, that type of openness would be dangerous.<p>

So, he hid his desires from others. While he was on a case, he would turn off that part of him, let it all fade away so he would focus on the work. When he wasn't on a case, however, he would masturbate in his room, hidden from the world when his back arched off the bed as he came with a silent cry of John or Lestrade's name on his lips. He wasn't above indulging in his fantasies, even if they were about his only male friends. They were only fantasies, after all. However, occasionally, his own long fingers desperately hunting for his prostate in the wee morning hours didn't satisfy him. Occasionally, he would sneak away to get his fill of his secret.

Sherlock Holmes frequented a gay strip club. When the smooth toys in his bedside table didn't do it for him, or on the rare occasions he craved the electricity of his fingers running across another's flesh during a private dance to some overly sexualized pop song, he would go to the club. It was a few blocks away from the flat, which allowed him to walk back roads, avoiding taxis and anything else Mycroft would use to track him. John never questioned when he went out, eliminating him as an issue as well. His secret was safe, hidden from everyone around him. It was his place of private solace, where no one could reach him or see him vulnerable under the claws of sexual pleasure.

After he had become a bit of a celebrity, however, going out had become more difficult, as he ran the risk of recognition. But, never had the detective been presented with a problem he couldn't solve. (At least, he wouldn't admit to any he couldn't.) So, now when he went out, he put on a sort of disguise. His light eyes would be lined with black, his hair would be coated with some sort of soft, masculine smelling product, and his body would be adorned with a pair of tight trousers and a loose, often open button down shirt. He didn't look at all like the arrogant, well pressed detective the papers had become accustomed to once he was finished.

Leaving the flat in such a state occasionally presented an obstacle, as Mrs. Hudson or John might see him in such attire. However, this problem, too, was solved by careful planning so he could sweep out of the flat quickly and discreetly when the two tenants were distracted. It had never failed, and his secret remained safe.

It was a rainy night when he felt the urge again. So, as always when he wasn't busy with a case, he didn't deny himself. He opened his closet, slipped on a pair of his tightest, most revealing trousers, placed on a sheer black button down, lined his eyes with a soft pencil (he tried liquid once- it was quite difficult to convince John he had been doing an experiment when he approached him with a makeup-filled eye), and tousled his hair gently with product. Feeling almost buzzed with the prospect of the private dance, (or two, if he was feeling especially desperate), he quickly tied his shoes, digging out his half-gone pack of cigarettes a moment later. He _had_ quit, but on these nights he fed his craving. It was only once in a while, anyway.

Slipping the sticks of tobacco and nicotine into his pocket, directly next to his fold of matches, Sherlock glanced out his bedroom door, listening intently. John was out on a date (which would later prove disappointing in the sex portion), and, judging by the slight, nearly imperceptible sweet stench floating in the air, Mrs. Hudson was occupied with her evening "herbal soother". Perfect. Rushing out of the building to duck into the alleyway directly to the right of his door, Sherlock began his walk, the rain tapering off into a forgiving mist that wouldn't damage his carefully perfected style choices. Turning right and left down the dark pathways he'd easily memorized, the walk was quickly over, leading him to an almost unnoticeable door at the end of an alleyway, lit by a sole red neon sign above that read _XXX Underground_. Not the most discreet or creative name, Sherlock thought cynically, but what was held inside was certainly worth the nearly cringe-worthy cliché.

Entering confidently just as the weather took to drenching the city, the detective walked down the almost too-dirty carpeted ramp, paying his way in at a booth before emerging through thick red curtains at the end of the walkway. Eyes flicking around the music filled club, he took in the different choices he had, from the young, nearly hairless man slipping around a silver pole to the bar filled with lads wanting to find an older man to satisfy their fancy. Not interested in either prospect, as hadn't desired to actually engage in intercourse with anyone but himself since his twenties, Sherlock headed to the back, handing a few notes to a strong, scantily clad man near the private rooms. Like clockwork, the man was silent and nodded, allowing him to enter and wait for someone to be sent.

He was at the club often enough the workers knew his preference in dancers, making words unnecessary. The song was always the dancers choice, and to Sherlock it made no difference. When he was lucky enough to receive a dancer that allowed him to touch, the music always dissolved into a rhythmic thumping in the background, his focus only on the feel of soft, usually shaven skin skating beneath his fingertips.

The room he entered into, one he had unspoken claim to each time he was in the club, was the best. All the other rooms were okay; they were generally clean, as was the club, but they all bore almost cheesy décor, like that in a bad pornography film. It was as if the main and private rooms were stuck in the silk, velvet, and mirror filled era of the late eighties. However, the room he was in was decorated tastefully. A single soft arm-chair sat in the center, its color, a deep crimson, complimenting the mostly black walls adorned with softly focused black and white photos of scantily clad men. It wasn't terrible, and provided for his occasional need.

Lost in his musings, he hadn't noticed the lighting in the room had automatically gone down until soft music began on the surround sound speakers. Not the usual choice of a fast-paced, sexualized song, Lady Gaga's _Paparazzi_ began as a dancer entered, his head down to hide his face. Part of the routine, Sherlock supposed. Eyes running over the man, who was slim, pale, and from what he could see, shaved from head to toe, Sherlock felt a smirk tug at the corner of his lips, his pupils dilating with the dancer he'd been provided. He preferred the ones who almost matched his own physique, but proved more dominant than he. Judging by the man's stance and way the dancer held himself, he was confident in his job, ready to dominate the room. Perfect.

Humming to himself in approval as the dancer approached, adept and comfortable in heels that matched the dark grey color of his lace pants and tight, almost sheer corset, Sherlock retrieved a cigarette, lighting it to take a drag as the man began to slowly move his hips to the beat, his face still bowed and hidden in the almost too-dark shadows of the room.

"Do you allow touching?" The detective asked suddenly, his voice rough and deep with smoke.

The dancer simply nodded, face still hidden. Sherlock found himself slightly put off that he wasn't able to see who the owner of the soft, dark head of gently tousled hair was, but let it slide as the dancer turned around, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair to lower his arse over the detective's crotch, gyrating softly. Taking the permission he was given, Sherlock reached out to skim his fingers along the lace covering the man's thin hip, the grey material rough in contrast to his skin.

Flushing with arousal at the contact, Sherlock allowed himself another drag of the cigarette, closing his eyes to savor the smoky sweetness filling his lungs as his hand traveled to the bare skin of the man's almost hairless legs. Lovely. While his eyes were closed, the body beneath his touch moved away, only to return a moment later to straddle him in the chair. Unused to such close contact from a dancer, Sherlock's eyes opened, his cock filling as his gaze wandered along the expanse of neck, shoulder, and back he was allowed.

Apparently, the dancer was intent on his face staying hidden, as he was currently grinding over Sherlock's lap, his warm, minty breath puffing over the shell of the detective's ear, keeping him anonymous. Against his better judgment, Sherlock brushed off his suspicion, instead choosing to squeeze at the dancer's hip while taking a leisurely drag of his cigarette. It was lovely, a perfect combination of smoke, sweat, and sex, the man's breath caressing his neck now, just below his earlobe. However, the comfortable, fulfilling arousal Sherlock was experiencing didn't last long, for the dancer decided to speak, voice soft and lilting over the music.

"Naughty boy, you're supposed to be quitting," he said, lips brushing over Sherlock's jugular as his hips ground down to fully meet the detective's then prominent erection. "Not to worry, your secret is safe with me, _Sherlock_."

Everything froze. Sherlock knew that voice, it was unmistakable. The voice knew _him_. Moriarty. Horror freezing his heart for half a second, the cigarette in his hand dropped to the floor, its tip still burning red. Shoving the body off of him, Sherlock stood and backed away, wide eyes filled with the stumbling, softly laughing form of his enemy.

"Oh, well hello there." Moriarty greeted, turning fully to face Sherlock, his identity no longer a secret, but a fact he intended to flaunt. "Fancy meeting you here," he continued calmly, grinding out the burning stub on the carpet with his heel.

Sherlock instantly put on a mask, concealing the utter terror he was feeling as all arousal left his body. "What the _hell_ are you doing here?" He spat, buttoning his shirt in an unconscious show of vulnerable insecurity.

"I thought it was obvious," the consulting criminal replied, waving his hand nonchalantly to reference the music and environment around them. "I'm indulging you. Well," he added after a moment, dragging the word out with an exaggerated shrug, his eyebrows lifting casually, "indulging myself, too. I am your biggest fan, after all."

With his words, Sherlock put the pieces together in a second, realizing everything had been planned, from the obvious song choice to the unusually dark room. How Moriarty discovered his secret before Mycroft was a mystery to him, that of which he hated. He abhorred not knowing, and with the criminal, he was always questioning, always in the proverbial dark. "Get out."

Moriarty frowned obviously, approaching Sherlock in direct defiance of the order. "Oh, don't be like that. I was just giving you what we both want."

"What we both want?" Sherlock asked, voice cold and incredulous to hide his still present terror. "I'm afraid you're mistaken."

"Hmm, no, I don't think so," Moriarty answered with a lick of his lips, reaching out to undo the top button of Sherlock's shirt as the music faded out. Of course, his hand was instantly smacked away, but the action did nothing but encourage as he stepped forward, invading the detective's space further. "Let's have some fun." An almost taunting smile flitted across his lips. "It'll stay between us, _dear_."

Sherlock's stomach turned at the words, bile rising angrily in the back of his throat. How dare Moriarty ruin the one thing he reserved for himself, the one thing he indulged in to relax him? "I said," he ground out, trying his best to contort the underlying, barely there waver in his voice to come across as rage, "Get. Out."

"Not going to happen," Moriarty replied in a sing-song voice, licking his lips slowly, his eyes meeting Sherlock's. "Besides, we've got so much in common," he continued, backing his detective up to the wall. "We're not ordinary, we both love a good game, and, _oh, look_," his thumb came up to rub ever so gently at the corner of Sherlock's eye, picking up some of the black liner, "we both wear this when we're here."

Disgusted, Sherlock scoffed, ignoring the heat beginning to simmer in his stomach at the closeness of another body. It was just his transport's automatic reaction, nothing else. He tried to move away, but found himself trapped, Moriarty's hands resting on the wall on either side of his head. "What is this?"

Moriarty leaned close to Sherlock, his minty breath now heating the detective's reluctant lips. "An offer. Mutual satisfaction, totally secret."

"I don't engage in intercourse," Sherlock replied, voice dark clouds and steel, threat and protection. "Too messy. Too complicated. I can satisfy myself, that's enough."

"Why then, pray tell, do you come here, hmm?" A single finger slid along the length of Sherlock's inner thigh.

Unmoving, though he wished to run, Sherlock narrowed his eyes in anger. "I don't need to justify my actions to you."

"Let's play deductions, then," Moriarty replied with an undertone of sickening glee. "You often allow yourself time for your sexual needs, and usually that satisfies you. But, you, despite what you often claim, are not a sociopath, my darling. You need human contact every once in a while, but prefer, as you said, no sex. Too complicated. Probably having to do with your emotional insecurity." He clicked his tongue, as if in disappointment or pity. "You don't realize, though, that I am a sociopath. I might be a psychopath, too, who knows," he continued, exaggerating a baffled tone as he let out a breath between his lips. "What I'm saying is I have no strings attached to this. I'm fascinated by you, as you are by me. I'm offering beneficial pleasure for the both of us. Is that so wrong?"

Sherlock licked his lips nervously, humid then from Moriarty's almost icy breath. The closeness, the gentle, barely there brush of the criminal's lips over his own was causing the heat in his lower abdomen to grow, much to his dismay. The offer, he admitted to himself for a fraction of a second, was tempting. Shaking off the notion the second it crossed his mind, he took both his hands and grasped roughly at Moriarty's slim, soft shoulders, turning to shove him none too gently into the wall. "Yes," he bit out, "it is '_so wrong_'."

Moriarty's mouth formed an _O _as he looked up at Sherlock, a soft, taunting laugh bubbling up from the back of his throat, his tone again lilting. "Ah-ah, Sherlock, we both know you're the submissive type." the criminal reprimanded. "Although," he continued with a squirming roll of his hips that only met air, "this little dominating act is _adorable_."

Sherlock moved a hand up to curl in Moriarty's short hair, still ignoring his transport's then obvious arousal. He would not be cowed into this situation simply because his body wanted it. His mind didn't want it, he told himself, although deep down he knew it wasn't true. But, with years experience of convincing himself of false facts, he told himself he didn't desire the man below him. Wrenching the criminal's head back by his soft locks, he looked straight into his black rimmed eyes. "I. Do. Not. Want. _You_," he spat, punctuating each word with a tightening of his grip.

Moriarty only preened under the attention, his cock twitching beneath the lace pants he wore. "Oh come now, even John could deduce your arousal now." His voice and demeanor was nothing but calm and calculating, his eyes darker than usual with lust.

Sherlock stopped at the mention of John, releasing Moriarty to turn angrily, hiding his erection from view. With the fact laid out in front of him, he found himself unable to deny it, somehow unable this time to convince himself of a falsity. It nearly made him sick. He opened his mouth, trying to respond one last time with a denial he then wasn't confident in, but was cut off by his own desperate moan as Moriarty's arms circled him quickly, his hand squeezing at his trouser-clad erection.

"Whoopsies!" Moriarty quipped with overdone glee, rubbing his fingers across Sherlock's length, his presence somehow dominating and controlling, even from an unseen stance behind the detective. "Looks like you've shown your hand, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut in frustration and arousal, pressing his prick into the consulting criminal's firm palm. "Fine. Fine, do it," he breathed, the consent both damning and freeing. He was fully conscious of his choice, knowing he hadn't made it due to Moriarty's coercion, but out of his own desire. He wasn't consenting due to pressure, but due to his own need. Whether this was better or worse than succumbing to persistent cajoling, he couldn't say. However, with Moriarty's hand squeezing gently at him, he didn't have much time for consideration, especially when the other man spoke.

"Go sit in the chair," Moriarty ordered, proving his earlier point of Sherlock's submissive nature. "And please, _do _smoke."

Sherlock stiffened as his own words from months previous were repeated to him, but complied and sat in the chair, retrieving his cigarettes with a steeled conscious, his face and demeanor free of any previous fear. If he was going to do this, he was going to commit to it fully. Placing the cylinder of nicotine between his plush lips, the detective sparked up, inhaling deeply. Before he could release the breath, however, Moriarty walked up to him, just as confident in heels and a corset as he was in Oxfords and a Westwood suit.

"Would you like to share?" The criminal asked, leaning down lewdly to let his parted lips brush Sherlock's.

Sherlock, knowing the words were not a request, nodded and parted his lips in turn, heart pounding as he breathed the smoke into the criminal's lungs. He heard Moriarty make a pleased sound in the back of his throat, the noise lasting for but a second before their lips met in a heated kiss.

Smoke floating out in spicy wisps between their moving mouths, the two enemies explored each other, tongues meeting in slick, hot caresses, those of which were void of all gentle care. Teeth clacked together just slightly, both men vying for dominance until Moriarty's hand came to wrap around Sherlock's neck. His grip wasn't painful, but was a firm warning, showing the detective who was in charge.

As was his nature, Sherlock submitted readily in the kiss, his cock leaking precome to add to the damp patch now spreading on the front of his trousers. Engaging with Moriarty was obviously dangerous, the fact only proven by the fingers wrapped about his long neck. But, if he thought about it, the danger was the reason he was allowing it to happen. As with everything, from drugs to the game he'd played with the cabbie during the case John had dubbed _A Study in Pink_, he was doing it to prove he could, to prove he was clever enough to survive dangerous situations safely. So, snubbing out the cigarette blindly on a metal piece of the chair's arm, Sherlock let his finger's skate along Moriarty's erection, pulling a soft moan from the man above him.

"Oh, I knew you'd come around," Moriarty breathed, moving his lips to nip at Sherlock's jaw line, a sinister smile coloring his expression. "Now, why don't you tell daddy exactly what you want?"

Sherlock knew he should've been disturbed by Moriarty's choice of words, but only found himself wanting more. So, he vocalized his need. "I want you to touch me," he replied, not allowing himself to feel shame in his wanton request, "I want you to narrate what you're doing. I want to hear you pick apart my body's every detail." With Moriarty, it wasn't just his transport anymore, it was his body, and he was going to enjoy every moment of the twisted, wrong situation that was transpiring.

Moriarty sucked in a soft breath, his expression darkening with almost dangerous arousal. "Anything you wish," he replied gently, removing Sherlock's shirt with adroit swiftness, biting roughly at his long, pale neck.

Letting out a cry of arousal and slight pain, Sherlock bit his lip, eyes widening to let him take in every detail of the situation surrounding him. He gripped Moriarty's still bent waist for a moment, but instantly stopped when the criminal demanded his hands stay on the arms of the chair.

"Good boy," Moriarty said once his hands landed upon the chair, happy with the way Sherlock was complying with his every order. Smirking, he rubbed both his thumbs across the detective's pebbled nipples, saying, "Is this why you always wear tight shirts? Hm? To feel the material rub across you as you work?"

All Sherlock could do was nod, a whining moan slipping from the back of his throat as Moriarty moved to kneel before him, lips skittering across his abdomen just above his trouser's waistline.

"Such soft skin," he muttered, allowing his chin to rub gently at the head of Sherlock's erection. "It's a shame you don't share it with others. Almost selfish, isn't it?" He asked, looking up to see the detective nod once more in instant compliance. Humming with content, Moriarty quickly undid Sherlock's trousers, slipping them off. "No pants? Oh, _naughty_ _boy_."

Sherlock's hips jerked up as cool air breezed across the precome-sticky head of his heated prick, head lolling onto the back of the chair with the flood of sensations. How he got there, with Jim Moriarty on his knees before him, successfully dominating him from a classically submissive position, he would never be able to say. But, in that moment, all he cared for was finding some relief for his straining cock. "Please," he managed, his tone no longer hard and cold, but wanton and needy.

"Please, what?" Moriarty demanded softly, letting his breath puff over Sherlock's cock head.

"Please, _Jim_," Sherlock corrected in desperation, Moriarty's first name feeling somehow comfortable on his kiss-swollen lips, "do something. Anything. _Please_."

"Well," Moriarty said with another exaggerated shrug and smirk, a glint of wickedness shining through the lust in his dark gaze, "I could never resist someone with manners." Then, in an instant, his hands were pulling Sherlock's arse to the edge of the seat, manhandling him into a suitable, spread-legged position.

Sherlock, when Moriarty forced him forward, expected to feel a warm mouth surround him. However, in the criminal's classic fashion, he deviated from the expected. In an instant, Sherlock felt a tongue swipe over his entrance, running all the way up to his perineum. Back arching, the detective stopped on a wordless cry of pleasure, panting.

"Oh, we like that, do we?" Moriarty said, kissing Sherlock's inner thigh with lewd, open lips as he wrapped a warm hand around the detective's erection.

Sherlock, breath labored and heavy, could only nod, looking down to meet Moriarty's gaze, his cheeks flushed and hair tousled to compliment his lust blown eyes.

Moriarty smirked, almost to himself, the clean, almost sweet taste of Sherlock's skin lingering pleasantly on his tongue. Using his free hand to take his own erection from its lace confines, the criminal slowly stroked himself, indulging in his own need while instructing Sherlock to keep his knees up, bent, and spread.

Of course, Sherlock complied, allowing Moriarty free rein to tongue at his entrance. After that, everything was a blur of pleasure. His world was narrowed to a myriad of sensations, which assaulted him all at once: the wet press of tongue against his entrance, the hand tossing him off languidly, even the rub of the corset against his inner knees. It was all too much and all too little simultaneously, and, combined with the fact that the one performing all the actions upon him was none other than his greatest enemy, Sherlock was not meant to last long.

In just under four minutes, the detective felt his bullocks tighten up against his body, and with one last swipe of the criminal's tongue at his entrance, he was coming, loud, quick, choppy moans sounding from him as orgasm jerked through his body, his seed spilling messily over his abdomen.

Moriarty groaned at the sight of Sherlock, back arching up with deep moans as he came, and began to strip his cock furiously, resting his head against the detective's inner thigh, every other labored breath a needy moan. Then, in a second, he looked up, his desperate gaze meeting Sherlock's sated one. In a fraction of a second, one that surprised even him, Moriarty was coming, lined eyes squeezing shut with a broken, somehow soft shout of completion.

Sherlock, after the pleasure had faded into relaxation, finally had the frame of mind to realize exactly what he'd just done. He wanted to feel sick, wanted to feel disgusted at the cooling ejaculate on his stomach, at the spit-slick feel of his arse, but couldn't. Instead, he felt satisfied, fulfilled. He felt successful, as he'd survived yet another unfathomably dangerous situation.

"Oh," Moriarty said after minutes of silence, lifting his head from where it rested against Sherlock's inner thigh, "that _was_ good, wasn't it?"

Sherlock, not allowing himself to panic just yet, nodded, putting on another mask of cool control despite the pending war inside of him, his heart the drum of a battle soon to come. "It was," he responded, standing uncaringly to clean himself up and dress, ignoring Moriarty through the process.

Moriarty, however, wasn't phased, and simply stood to approach Sherlock once he was done. "Thanks again, sugar," he said softly, popping a square piece of mint gum into his mouth, biting through its crunchy shell almost obnoxiously.

Sherlock's only response was an eye roll as he turned away, the war beginning within him, taking precedence as soon as he exited the section of private rooms.

"Don't forget to call," Moriarty said to the detective's back, gum snapping between his teeth as he smiled, his expression cold and shark-like. He'd chased down exactly what he wanted, he'd finally gotten Sherlock right where he needed: under his control. It was a beautiful thing, he thought, leaning against the door frame in satisfaction. Absolutely beautiful.


End file.
